


In which Tony takes a day-trip, and has some good ideas

by Skull_Bearer



Series: Sex, Love and Robotics [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Beta!Pepper, Drug Use, Iron Man - Freeform, M/M, Omegaverse, Sexual Harassment, Threat of Rape, Tony POV, Tony and the Bots, Tony in Afghanistan, dubcon, omega!Tony, withdrawl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:18:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skull_Bearer/pseuds/Skull_Bearer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony goes to Afghanistan, and can no longer hide from himself any more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Tony takes a day-trip, and has some good ideas

**Author's Note:**

> A few parts of this were taken from the first part of IM1.

It’s hot, and Tony is sweating through his bullet-proof vest. The humvee doesn’t have a CD player, which is a criminal oversight by the US government, and something Tony hopes he can remedy as soon as possible. These men and women are risking their lives for freedom and justice and apple pie, the least they deserve is AC/DC on hand when they want it.

Rhodey would probably flip over the twenty-five different regulations he’s breaking bringing his CD player on board, but that’s why he’s in the humdrumvee.

Still, AC/DC can’t make up for being stuck in a cramped van with three Alphas. Even through the Heat suppressants the smell makes him antsy; a slow prickling crawl down his spine. Tony pauses, and touches the inside of his coat, feeling the crinkle of the foil and plastic. It’s the work of practised years to reach inside his coat as though checking on his cell phone, and pop out a pill from the wrapper stamped with the words _do not take more than one every twenty-four hours_.

The last pill was sixteen hours, thirteen minutes ago. Sixteen hours, twenty four hours; who cares? It’s not the first time he’s broken that rule and boom: still here. Besides, in eight hours he’ll probably be asleep on the plane back to Malibu, better to take it now. The pill tastes like swallowing chalk, and numbs his lips and tongue. He quickly downs a mouthful of whiskey to wash the taste away.

He starts to relax as the drug kicks in and the crawling scent of Alpha fades. Better. Safe. A reminder he’s not Omega now. That those curious glances he’s getting aren’t suddenly going to turn hungry and predatory. He’s safe. It’s enough that he decides to break the ice.

“I feel like you’re driving me to a court martial, this is crazy. What did I do?”

And yeah, like that, it’s easy. The warm burr of the drug and the easy confidence of being Tony Stark. The comfortable haze that covers his world and blunts the sharp edges. That relaxes the flow of his life from party to party, workshop to demonstration. Like a slow dance where he knows exactly where he has to be. Like standing in front of the Jericho, just near enough for the best show, for the shockwave to run fingers through his hair in acknowledgement that yeah, I built you, you are awesome, and so am I.

Even the soldiers start to relax, a few shy smiles.

“No, you intimidate them.”

“Oh yeah, I must be terrifying them. What?” He looks at Forrest, “Three big Alphas, one little Beta, I must be terrified. Look, I’m shaking.” He rattles his glass. “Going to apologize for scaring the poor civilian?”

“No sir.” He says through a laugh, which sets the others off, sheepish.

And they’re all laughing, and the tension is just gone. Even the heat feels better, more comfortable. Smithson twists around, like Tony’s just made his day just by sitting here. “Sir I – I have a question to ask.”

“Yes, please.” Because, right now, Tony can’t see any questions he wouldn’t want to answer.

“Is it true that you went twelve for twelve with last year’s Maxim cover models?”

“That’s an excellent question.” And yeah, whoa. That had been fun. It doesn’t hurt for people to talk of how Tony Stark fucks like he thinks he’s an Alpha.

“Anything else?”

And Forrest – this is hilarious, puts his hand up like they were in school or something. Not that Tony ever did that. But hey, not everyone can be Tony Stark.

“Is it cool to take a picture with you?”

And that is so not the worst thing Tony’s done to make someone’s day. That was without a doubt the drunken roadtrip with Rhodey, which had ended with Tony pretending Rhodey was six miles away so he wouldn’t be court-martialled.

“Yes, it’s very cool.” And yeah, the boy’s face just lights up like its Christmas and seriously? They’re this desperate for soldiers that they’re letting kids like this in? Pepper would eat the kid alive and she’s Beta (if a bit on the Alpha side). Not that Pepper would join the military, not until they started making Gucci army boots-

“I don’t want to see this on your MySpace page. Please, no gang signs.” The boy’s face falls. Seriously? _Tony_ could eat this kid alive and he’s not even really Beta. This is ridiculous. “No, throw it up, I’m kidding. Yeah, peace, I love peace. Be out of a job with peace.” As what’s her name said; that Vanity Fair reporter. Merchant of Death. He’d like to see what her professors at Brown would say if they were here. They’d be begging for little Forrest to protect them. Easy to be critical when you’re a thousand miles away. At least Tony could see his weapons were going to protect people like Forrest-

Then the hummer one up from them blows up.

Tony has seen explosions so many times this one barely even registers. After the Jericho, this is a toy rocket. It takes him a second to pick up that this one came from the convoy. It isn’t supposed to explode. He hasn’t made it explode.

Tony is not used to being in situations where things explode of their own accord.

Then the screaming. Harrow slams on the brakes and starts shouting orders. And no amount of drugs can cut out the sudden, massive influx of fight/run/kill Alpha pheromones and Tony just freezes. It’s as though his own body has decided not to belong to him, every muscle tense and useless.

“What’s going on?!” Because maybe if someone could explain this to him, it might not be happening. A drill, a joke, fuck, even an accident would do fine. Because right now, Tony can only think that they’ve been attacked; and _that doesn’t happen to Tony Stark_.

Harrow jerks the door open and lurches out, firing as she goes. Tony knows that gun. He designed that fucking gun. Harrow gets half a dozen shots off then falls. And all Tony can think is _no, you’re not supposed to fire it like that_. But that’s stupid because oh god she’s been shot and she’s dead, and didn’t he design those bullet-proof vests as well?

Smithson shouts “Stay with Stark” to Forrest, then he jumps out too. Tony’s pulled down, but not before he sees Smithson hammered down in a blast that cracks the car windshield.

-he _made_ these vests, he knows how tough they are. Triple weave, flexible as a flack-jacket, hard as three inch steel. _He can recite their molecular makeup_. There is nothing that can get through it-

Forrest howls _“Son of a bitch_!” And he jumps out of the car too.

“Waitwaitwaitwait!”

“Stay! Here!” Forrest makes it two steps before he’s hit by frag that drops him to the sand, and turns the humvee into a colander.

Then there’s nothing but gunshots, and Tony’s haggard breaths into the suddenly airless humvee.

He has to get out. He can’t breathe. He’s sitting in a huge ‘Hi, I’m a target!’ car which is being shot at with weapons that shouldn’t exist.

The noise outside is deafening, and surrounded by the blank beige landscape Tony is one huge black target in his suit. His shoes slip and can’t grip and it takes several stumbling steps before he gets enough momentum to run, each breath pounding through his chest _This. Isn’t. Happening. This. Isn't. Happening._

He hurls himself behind a boulder and grabs his phone. Tony doesn’t have the first idea who he’s going to call – Rhodey? Oh Rhodey oh god he almost got into Tony’s humvee. Please, please let him be somewhere else. He doesn’t know what’s going to _say_. Help under fire by weapons that shouldn’t exist because there’s aren’t any weapons that ignore Stark Tech except-

With a whine; a bomb slams down four feet away. More than close enough for Tony to see the logo in the heartbeat before it explodes.

_This isn’t happening-_

There’s nothing for a split second. Then pain when he hits the ground and a deep, chilling numbness in his chest. Light shafts down through his lashes, a washed out blue sky. Tony tries to breathe, seems to have forgotten how. _This isn’t happening._

He manages to lift his head, tries to see what’s going on. His shirt is splattered over with rust red that Tony thinks at first is mud, until it starts to spread. _This isn’t happening_.

The only thing that can get through Stark Tech; is Stark Tech.

He fumbles at his shirt with numbing hands, yanks it open to the ragged mess that had once been the last word in Stark Industries’ protective clothing, shredded by the last word in Stark Industries’ fragmentation bombs.

_This can’t be happening._

He coughs, and suddenly the pain flares to life in a corona of pure agony. White against the black of oncoming unconsciousness.

_This can't be happening._

 

* * *

 

Any sound he tries to make is swallowed by a thick gag, he tastes starch and blood; and for a moment it’s not a twist of his own ruined shirt, it’s a tablecloth he’s pushed facedown on, and that scream is strangled as well. The inside of his mouth is dry and parched, gag sodden with his own saliva. He swallows down bile, afraid he’d choke on it, and the motion makes his chest light up in star-shattering pain.

Then there’s hands on him – or they’d always been there, and he didn’t feel them. They hoist him up and he lands on his back so hard everything goes black when the air is knocked out of his lungs and doesn’t come back.

Then there’s pain. It’s in his chest, stretching long searching fingers through his ribcage. Long, gouging claws. It shreds his lungs, he can hear each lingering snap as his ribs break, one by one, each bring a building burst of pain that has him sobbing. The gag is gone, and Tony manages a scream against the pain slowly crushing his spine. It cups his heart and squeezes until Tony feels it burst, tastes blood in his throat, in his mouth, in his nose.

He tries to pull the pain out of him, and he can’t. His limbs are pinned down by hands that don’t belong to the pain. They hold him down as the pain pauses, and pulls out, letting freezing air fill his carved-out chest, air everywhere but in the ruins of his lungs as he coughs in agony and tries to breath. Then cold, colder than the air, colder than ice. The pain settles deeper and deeper, a smug, satisfied, unbearable weight inside him, something alien and sick and wrong burrowing deeper until Tony can’t scream any more, can’t even breathe.

He pulls and thrashes and it doesn’t help. He’s too weak. No one’s coming. They can hold him down for as long as this lasts and the pain can do what it wants to him. He can’t move. He can’t scream.

He passes out.

 

* * *

 

The pain is still there when he wakes up. The world is a blotchy spread of darkness, and each breath is a struggle against the solid fist of pain in his chest. His wrists ache, no one is holding him down, but he can feel the bruises like manacles. The air is cold on his skin, in his mouth. His breath mists white. He tries to swallow and is almost blinded by pain in his nose. Numb fingers probe his face and touch the tape holding some... tube. He pulls and oh god he can feel it slowly drawing out from his lungs, scraping up his windpipe, his throat. He coughs, struggles not to retch and pulls the tube the rest of the way out. The cold air cuts into his aching nose, makes tears spring to his eyes. It’s out. It’s okay. It’s out.

There’s a tin mug next to where he’s lying – a bed, he’s on a army cot bed – he fumbles for it but his fingers are too big somehow, too heavy. The mug tips off the table and water – so sweet, so inviting to his bruised, aching throat - floods over the floor. An attempted groan turns into a cough, then chokes off when Tony sees him.

A man, bearded, with glasses, his back to Tony. Tony tries to roll out of the bed. There’s a horrible, world-wrenching _jerk_ and the pain is back, hot and ice and iron and he tries to curl up and can’t move for it.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s hard as stone. Heavy as stone. Tony can feel his lungs brush against it when he breathes. This... alien, _wrong_ thing squatting in his chest, against his heart. Something that’s not meant to be there.

He can’t stop running his fingers over the rough surface of the metal, now eerily, sickeningly warm from the heat of Tony’s body. A perfect 98.6 degrees, but it’s not skin, it’s not _his_. Oh god this is so fucking _wrong_.

He turns the vial of shrapnel over and over in his hand and tries to swallow down the vague feeling that it would have been - not better, but more appropriate, less _wrong_ , for the shards of metal to have been left in him instead. He built the bomb, that's his work. He'd rather have his work than this - this clapped out heap of junk they're calling an electromagnet. And yeah it's fucking stupid to think he'd feel better that way because he'd be dead. But it would have left him wanting to claw his own skin off to get rid of the feeling because there aren't any freezing showers to sit under in Afghanistan.

Tony drops the vial. It cracks. He drives the heels of both hands into his eye sockets and tries not to think. At all. Of anything.

Which is of course when the next thought pops into his head.

“Where’s my jacket?”

The man with glasses looks at him as though he’s decided, for Tony’s sake, to have not quite heard him correctly. “What?”

“My jacket. The jacket I was wearing.” He turns, but there’s no sign of it anywhere. He takes two steps without thinking and the pain drives him collapsing back into his seat.

“Is that your only concern?” Glasses leaves the pan and walks over to him. “Your jacket?”

Tony bares his teeth in a snarl. “I need it. Where is it?”

“You did not have it when you came in. They must have left it where they found you.”

Shit. Oh shit. Tony screws his eyes shut. Swallowing panic. He draws in a long breath; opens his mouth and has no idea what he’s about to say.

He’s saved from the effort by shouts and bangs from outside. Glasses grabs Tony by the arm and hauls him to his feet. “Come on, stand up, stand up! Just do as I do. Come on, put your hands up.”

Tony can’t get much from him in scent. Just old sweat, fear, nothing clear. Hopefully, there’s still enough drug left in his system to-

The door open, then that hope is pretty much gone. The people who come in _reek_ of Alpha. Tony wrinkles his nose at the assault of hate and rage, and manages not to take a step back as every hind-brain instinct tells him to run/cower/hide from this threat.

He tries to focus on something else, his eyes catch on something familiar. His guns. These madmen have his guns. How did they get his guns?

He doesn’t realise he’s talking aloud until Glasses tells him to be quiet.

The leader steps forwards, smiling. Everything about this man is big, he tops Tony by a good four inches, wears layers of coats and throws his hands up to appear even bigger. His voice bounces off the walls. He walks right up to the two of them and it’s a struggle not to step away from him, his stench – Alpha and just plain unwashed – is so strong Tony can taste it in his mouth, feel it on his skin. Everything about the man is overpowering, crushing.

It’s all he can do to hold his ground and meet the man’s eyes. Without the drugs to silence them, his instincts are screaming at him to huddle down, show his throat, submit and avoid being made a target. But Glasses doesn’t seem to care, managing a look of total disinterest that Tony envies, only reacting when Alpha Coats motions to him to translate.

“He says, "Welcome, Tony Stark, the most famous mass murderer in the history of America. He is honored.”

Tony can feel his tongue aching for some smart reply, something cutting that he’d already be saying without thinking. His brain feels frozen, and nothing comes out.

“He wants you to build the missile. The Jericho missile that you demonstrated. This one.”

Tony knows that photo; it was specially commissioned by some top-class photographer and was on the cover of every pamphlet that had been sent to the generals who came to the demonstration. Rhodey hadn’t seen them before the demonstration.

This looks like an original.

_How is this happening?_

They are all looking at him. That at least, Tony is familiar with. These people are waiting for him to say something when he hadn’t prepared anything. Just like every presentation he’s been to, every speech, all the way back to his parents’ funerals.

This time, he can’t even bluff.

“I refuse.”

 

* * *

 

Finally. When Tony can’t breathe except in retching gasps. When Tony’s lost count of the number of heartbeats they kept him under water, because you can’t count when the world is shutting down in burning, blinding pain around you and your brain is cannibalizing itself for oxygen.

When he opened his mouth to say _yes, yes, anything you want just yes_ , and doesn’t have the air to do it.

When they dragged him out and Tony heard someone – Glasses – tells them that if they did it again, the electromagnet would short circuit and he would die.

When they did it anyway, and Tony was pulled out still gasping, and Alpha Coats laughed and said if Tony didn’t build their weapons, they might as well carry on because otherwise what was he good for? And Glasses had to translate that.

Tony spat water and swore. Coats punched him in the stomach and pushed him back underwater when he gasped for air. They keep him under until the world goes black and leave him on the floor, soaked and shivering. It’s freezing cold. The world goes in and out of focus, and each breath brings up its own weight in water. Tony doesn’t know if his eyes have failed, or if they've left him in the dark.

He coughs. No one makes a sound. He’s alone. His arms are tied behind his back – Tony has no idea when that happened – it’s so tight his fingers are numb. Maybe that’s the cold. He’s starting to shiver in the puddle of water he’s lying in.

Water. Water and he’s hooked up to a car battery. Tony curls up around it, bracing it between his knees to keep it out of the water. Keep the wires dry. It's cold. Each breath cuts his throat. He coughs and clings to the battery. If it fails he’ll die. If he doesn’t say yes, he’ll die. They’ll kill him. They’ll kill him and no one will find him, or if they do, it’ll be too late.

And if he does say yes, and those madmen get a Jericho – no, they won’t, the Jericho is delicate, everything has to be perfectly calibrated. He’ll just screw something up and have it blow itself up. The repulsors would probably be the best, he could probably rewire them to loop and strike their launching point. Not something he would be walking away from, but they were probably planning to strap him to the first rocket anyway.

Tony’s body shivers, his legs starting to ache from holding up the battery. But in his head, he doesn’t feel the pain, the cold anymore; too busy pulling the Jericho apart mentally, component by component, trying to work out what he can sabotage without anyone noticing.

And how fast he can build this thing, because his body's now it's own time bomb, and Tony doesn't want to find out what will happen when the drugs finally wear off.

 

* * *

 

  They have his weapons. Until now Tony’s been trying to tell himself these people must have stolen his weapons from warehouses and raided convoys. But now? No. They have been buying his weapons. He’s been selling weapons to these people? Or someone’s been buying from him and selling them on.

There’s enough here to – well, if Tony built a Jericho, and told it to target this stockpile, the explosion would probably be seen from space. There’d be nothing left of this place but a glass crater. No more weapons with his name all over them.

Glasses is here, it takes Tony a moment to recognise him in the blinding white of the outside. “He says they have everything you need to build the Jericho missile.”

Tony holds back a snort in his raw throat. Good to know he’s being underestimated. He could build three Jerichos with this pile. He built Dummy with a fraction of maybe one of the crates here. He could build a whole fleet of robots with this, _and_ they'd all have four limbs, a body, a head-

Tony pauses.

Glasses is still talking. “He wants to you to make a list of the materials.”

He won’t be able to write a program for it, that could take months and there's no time. But if he changed the wiring, and made the space, he could climb inside and man it himself, maybe cobble something together from this hellish arsenal-

“He says to you to start working immediately.”

But how is he going to power it? These people have guns, and Tony knows down to the last digit how efficient they are. If he wants to get out alive he needs armor, and he isn’t strong enough to walk around in the inches-thick steel he’s going to need to stop the bullets. Dummy needs hours every day hooked up to the grid to recharge. Tony doesn’t even have the grid. Tony has a car battery.

Other ideas, alternative power sources. Nuclear is impossible, wind is out. Solar might work, but not from underground. He’d have to get out first and they've taken pains to make sure he doesn't know how. Wave. Ha Ha. Arc reactor might work, but it’s too big-

“And when you’re done, he’ll set you free.”

Alpha Coats holds his hand out. Tony looks at him, remembers the repulsor tech annihilating a mountain. Repulsors used to be the size of a car, and he shrank it down to a few inches. Tony twists his lips into a smile and takes the man’s hand.

“No he won’t.

“No he won’t.” Glasses agrees.

 

* * *

 

Tony's agreement makes Alpha Coats very obliging, because the cell is now a workshop. It takes two days. Tools, tables, raw materials. Two days. And now Tony can't even start because his hands are shaking. He clenches them and closes his eyes. Deep breaths to try and calm down. How can he build anything like this?

Glasses is watching him. Watching him sweat and shudder through withdrawal from the drug he only doesn't have because those mad bastards didn't think to bring his jacket and oh shit fuck not like this please fucking god not like this-

Glasses takes his hand and Tony feels it jump in his grip like a frightened spider. He presses both hands around Tony's, and Tony feels so stupidly grateful he's there. "What do you need?" His voice is very soft.

He might as well tell him. Once the drug is out of his system it's not going to be any kind of fucking secret. He opens his mouth and he can't even form the words. His big, dark secret. The one thing about Tony Stark that nobody knows. He's shaking again. From laughter that isn't funny. From the huge idiotic joke that is his life. "Destrogestrel progestin."

There's a long, uncomfortable pause. Glasses doesn't let go of his hand. "That's-"

"Yeah. I know."

Another long, marginally less uncomfortable silence. Tony Fucking Stark. Secret Omega. That's going to be so much fun when the rest of the world finds out. When those bastards outside find out. Tony feels sick.

"I would advise you against trying to obtain some." Glasses says finally.

"And how do I do that?" Tony snaps. "Just go out and ask those-" he jerks a hand behind them, at the camera lens. "And then what? What do you think they'd-" He tries to continue, but can't. The words lock up somewhere inside him and he can't even breathe.

Glasses holds his hand a little tighter. "I would not worry about them." His voice is steady. "They are very single-minded in purpose. They want you to build them weapons, not bear them children."

And that's it, just hearing it said out loud and something inside Tony breaks. He can't run, he can't hide, he can't even fight and he's stuck here and it's happening again and can't do anything and oh fuck he's so fucking _scared_.

Then Glasses lets go of his hand, shifts forward until he's holding Tony. He smells of dust and damp and warmth. "I know this." He keeps talking, Tony's head on his shoulder, carding fingers through his hair as though Tony is a small child. "I know because I was in your position. Every time a Heat came on me they would let me alone and leave me to get on with it. They will do the same to you."

He doesn't let go until Tony finally gathers enough self-control to pull away. Feeling cold and shivery and sick to his stomach.

"How long have you been hiding what you are?"

And beneath all that, there's still a small kick of satisfaction that come with saying "Eighteen years."

"Eighteen years on Destrogestrel? You are lucky to be alive."

"I don't think that's what's going to end up killing me." The bite of sarcasm makes Tony feels a bit better. A bit more normal.

"It will if you take any now." Glasses nods at Tony's chest. "Blood clots are a bad combination with shrapnel. You would do their work for them."

The words settle somewhere in the pit of Tony's stomach, a heavy, hollow weight. He looks down at his hands. They are still shaking. It'll take some time for the drug to finally wear off, and then- Tony doesn't know. He always tried not to find out. He's here and there is nothing, absolutely nothing he can do about it. Except get to work. He's worked in worse conditions. He built Dummy, didn't he?

"Come on." Tony stands up, has to brace himself on the workbench to keep his balance as the world swirls.

Glasses gets up, steadies him. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to need your hands."

 

* * *

 

"Unscrew the cap." Tony rubs his face. It's slick with sweat. His undershirt is drenched and he has to keep drinking to stop from dehydrating. The tremors are getting worse. Glasses assures him they'll get better, and he'd better be right, because if the bastards here see he can't work he'll be completely fucking useless and if Tony's _lucky_ they'll just shoot him.

Glasses is good at this though, and starts pulling out the missile's delicate insides without prompting.

"Who are these people?" Tony picks up a screwdriver, tries to roll it between his fingers. It makes two successful circuits before his hand jerks and drops the screwdriver with a clatter.

 "They are your loyal customers, sir. They call themselves the Ten Rings." Glasses picks up the screwdriver. "You know, we might be more productive if you include me in the planning process."

Yeah, no. This place has to be bugged. "That slot there." Tony points out. "Tweezers."

Glasses shrugs, and does as instructed. Tony picks up the metal carcass and throws it against the wall. It makes a satisfying crash. Glasses stares at him. Tony shrugs. "Gotta look as though I'm doing something."

"And what is this?" Glasses holds up the scrap of metal.

"Palladium. Point nought one five grams." Tony picks out the sheets of tracing paper he's been working on and picks up a pencil. "We need at least one point six, so why don't you go break down the other eleven?"

He pauses, deep breaths to try and control himself. He can't leave this to Glasses, because that would mean having to explain what he's doing. And it can't wait, because they don't have time. So he has to do it himself, in pencil so he can rub out the mistakes, as lightly as possible so he doesn't punch through the paper when his hands spasm. Each component, one on each sheet so they make no sense unless looked at in the right order. The robot. The suit. Dummy's big brother.

 

* * *

 

His hands have calmed down enough that kneading and packing the sand for casting seems to be a good idea until a sudden jerk sprays red dust everywhere. Tony pulls his hands out and holds them out, watching the tremors die away.

"You are getting better." Glasses remarks, picking up the bowl and taking over.

"I'm still sweating like a pig." When they get out - when, _when_ not if - Tony is going to lock himself in the shower for a month.

"I do not think that is the drug." And on that cheery note, he hands the bowl back for Tony to carry on.

 

* * *

 

He's getting better, for a given value of better, but he's not mad enough to do the casting himself.

"Careful. Careful, we only get one shot at this." There's nothing for him to do. Tony hates that. All he can do is hover in the background trying to stop the molten metal from spilling through sheer force of will. 

"Relax. I have steady hands. Why do you think you're still alive?"

The metal pours out, slow, steady and perfect. Tony looks down at the skeleton taking shape in the dust. The skeleton of an arc reactor the size of Tony's fist. Maybe it's the first time it really looks real, but it dawns on Tony that this is going inside him. This thing he's making (okay, with Glasses' hands, but it's still _his_ ), is going to be a new part of him, and it's stupid how much a relief that it. That he can pull out the car battery _someone else_ put in him, and replace it with something that _he_ made. Like that's going to solve all his problems. Like he's not going to be trapped and dying and going into Heat when it's done. Well, maybe not the dying part.

Glasses is good. There's no spillage. And it's so dumb to still be calling this guy 'Glasses' after all this. He knows more about Tony than he let anyone (okay, maybe not Pepper) ever know before, and Tony doesn't know his name.

"What do I call you?"

"My name is Yinsen."

"Yinsen. Nice to meet you."

He smiles. "Nice to meet you too."

 

* * *

 

 The shakes have stopped, finally. He's still sticky and ill, and any appetite he has is pretty much gone by now.

 He went through this once. He is never going to forget what it feels like.

  _Come on_ , he tells his body. _Not now. Get me out first and I can lock myself in my lab and it can happen there. Not here. Please god not here._

 And there's still so much to do. The arc reactor - it's getting there, it's almost there, but the suit is still so many scribbles on paper. He doesn't have _time_ -

 "Should you be doing this?" Yinsen looks up from where's he's coiling wire around the metal framework.

 "Do I have any choice?" Tony snarls, he's getting snappish, another bad sign. "And what about you? Should I be watching the calendar for you as well?"

 "Me? No. That ended many years ago for me."

 Many years? But hadn't he- "How long have you been here?"

 Yinsen's smile has no humor in it, his eyes are hollow. "Too long."

 

* * *

 

 

And when it's done, despite everything, Tony feels the warm confidence and satisfaction that only comes when he does the impossible and it works. The arc reactor, small enough to fit inside his chest, working, powerful, _his_.

 "That doesn't look like a Jericho missile."

 Tony smiles. He remembers what it was like coding Dummy, those few days before his first Heat. Everything was so sharp and clear. It's not a bad feeling.

"That's because it's a miniaturized arc reactor. I got a big one powering my factory at home. It should keep the shrapnel out of my heart." He keeps his voice low. No one's run in shouting yet, so it's possible they haven't heard them.

"That could run your heart for 50 lifetimes." And yeah, Yinsen, poster boy for calm and control, is gaping at Tony. That's a good feeling too.

"Yeah. Or something big for 15 minutes."

And, well. Tony hasn't got much time. Even if Yinsen is right and they just leave him alone, that's still four to five days of being laid up. He won't even be able to talk sense for most of it. But Yinsen can keep working, and if Tony shows him the plans, it won't be wasted time.

If they _don't_ leave him alone, well - that is going to be another nightmare entirely, but at least it would be over quickly.

It's not like he doesn't know what to expect.

Tony picks up the plans and hands them to Yinsen.

"This is our ticket out of here."

 

* * *

 

 They start with the smaller components first, the parts that won't give them away, that could be from the Jericho or a Starkdrone or a car engine. Fuck, if the people watching them only have that one photograph, Tony could build a tank in front of them and pass it off as Jericho parts if that's all the reference they have.

 Actually, the first thing they make is a very basic, very crude, very sensitive pressure sensor that beeps if anyone outside is ten meters from their door.

This is not something they want anyone interrupting.

 "We should wait." Yinsen holds the arc reactor uncertainly. Tony closes his eyes.

 "Yinsen, I'm going to go into Heat very soon. I'd rather have _that_ inside me than a car battery." It's the first time he's said it out loud. He's proud his voice's remained steady. "It's safer, it's ready now, I promise not to jump your bones until you've finished."

The pathetic joke gets a chuckle. "Try and relax. I will be quick."

Tony keeps his eyes closed, honestly, he doesn't really want to see it happening. He feels Yinsen's fingers shockingly cool on the edge of the electromagnet, the point where the nerves go dead. Then a twist and sickening _click_ somewhere deep inside him. He swallows, grits his teeth and clenches his fists as the thing starts to _scrape_ out, all rough edges against the metal shell holding it in. He can't feel it exactly, the skin there is nerve dead, but he can _hear_ it in the same way you can hear the dentist's drill after the painkillers. The vibrations make his teeth ache.

Then it's out, and Tony feels too light, like his chest is full of air and not much else, the horrible weight is gone and he can feel his heart start to hammer against what's left of his ribcage.

He can't help it, his eyes fly open. "Yinsen-"

"Calm down, this will not take a moment." His hand braces on Tony's chest, keeping him steady. He puts down the electromagnet - fuck it's huge - and picks up the arc reactor. Tony catches a brief glimpse of his own chest, a smooth, metal lined cavity going impossibly deep, before he closes his eyes again and tries to pretend to be elsewhere.

The arc reactor is much smoother, it slides in evenly and locks in. Tony can feel it hum against his bones, a long, slow vibration not unlike Dummy's power output on nights he'd spent leaning against the bot. It's soothing. His heartbeat slows to normal, and he stops panting. It's in. It's okay. It's working.

He sits up, and it's not as hard as usual. The electromagnet was iron and copper, the arc reactor is titanium and glass. It's so light it's barely noticeable, and Tony is sure he can draw in fuller breaths now. And it's his. If he's going to have anything in his body, he'll have made it with his own hands.

He gets up. He's still sticky despite the chill in the air, and smells are so strong now he can barely eat, but he's got this control, and at least he won't have to worry about the car battery again.

He smiles at Yinsen. "Looks good?"

 

* * *

* * *

 

Tony opens his eyes what feels like a heartbeat after he closes them in exhaustion, and knows he's finally run out of time. It's sweet fire in his belly and slick wetness between his thighs. And a burning, gnawing demand in the back of his head, something hind-brain sinking it's claws into his mind and demanding - _oh fuck why now-_

Tony hears himself groan and closes his eyes again. He trails fingers over his chest and his skin almost crackles at the contact. He touches the reactor, shockingly cool against his overheating flesh, then he can't even pretend to resist any more, and reaches to where his aching cock is pressing against the maddeningly rough fabric of his pants.

Something in his brain goes off at the first touch, and Tony can't maintain dignity any longer, moaning and arching off the bed, kicking off his trousers, his free hand going around to press fingers inside himself. He's loose and soaking, and two fingers go in without resistance. Two, three, it's good, god it's good. Hot and deep and so fucking sweet, sweet like honey and the sunburst of sugar on his tongue. So good, and not enough to satisfy the itching, bone-deep ache inside him.

He can't keep quiet, he can't even maintain that dignity. Every breath is a gasp, a moan. He wants- oh god he wants it so much. If his kidnappers decided to come in, Tony would plead and crawl and beg for them to fuck him. He can't even maintain fear or disgust at this point, he's so far gone.

"Stark?" He hears Yinsen stir from his bunk. "Stark, are you- ah."

"Fuck." Tony manages. He can smell Yinsen next to him, normally he's not that noticeable. He keeps himself clean, and as a Omega past child-bearing age, he doesn't have much of a scent. Now, Tony's senses are going haywire, and he can smell the meal they'd shared last night - Yinsen finishing off what Tony couldn't eat more than two mouthfuls of - he can smell the solder and metal on Yinsen's skin and clothes. And he can smell him, more clearly than ever. Sweet and tender and so warm, Tony catches his hand and tries to pull him in so he can bury his head in his shirt, get under his clothes, on warm skin-

Yinsen carefully disentangles himself. "There, calm down. I have you." He touches Tony's hair, and Tony grabs his hand and nuzzles it, pressing a kiss to the palm. "You're an affectionate one, aren't you?"

Somewhere lost and buried, Tony's pride is bruised. Yinsen laughs. "Some get very bad tempered in their Heat. You are fine. Shh, it's safe."

Tony just growls, rocking against the fingers he's curling inside himself. But nothing's quite enough and even the pleasure's not satisfying him. He wants it deeper, stronger, panting and gasping in need and oh god _more_.

There's a bang on the door, and Yinsen jumps. Tony starts, but any panic just subsides and drowns when the next wave hits. Yinsen braces a hand on his chest and shouts at the door something Tony doesn't understand. He loses track of what's being said, closes his eyes and tries to block out everything but sensation on his hypersensitive skin. He rubs his face against the sheets and even that roughness feels wonderful.

The shouting from behind the door is getting louder, but no one is coming in. Finally there are loud, barked orders from someone - Alpha Coats, Tony thinks fuzzily - Yinsen shouts something back sharply. Then nothing. Yinsen mutters something like a curse.

Tony licks his lips, swallows. Yinsen crouches back beside him and sighs. His hand goes back to stroking through Tony's hair and Tony keens approvingly. Yinsen smiles.

"Are they coming?" Tony blinks up at him.

"No." Yinsen sighs again. "They ordered me to deal with you."

"You are dealing." Tony slurs, lifts his hips to try and push that little bit further, towards that sweet, aching place deep inside him.

"They want me to get you over this as quickly as possible, to get you back to work."

Tony's brain might be only barely functioning beyond bare instinct, but even he understands. "Oh."

"Yes."

"Do you want to?" Every part of Tony is screaming with raw _want_. Just... anything. Now. Please.

Yinsen huffs a laugh, and settles next to Tony on the bunk. "Up, up." He helps Tony sit up and eases his t-shirt off. The air is shockingly cold on his skin and Tony hisses in mixed surprise and relief.

"Easy, calm down." Yinsen pulls away to undress, then settles next to him, the bunk is tight with one, it's almost impossible with two. But they are both lean enough, and Tony is beyond caring. He buries his face in Yinsen's thin chest, inhales. Mmmm. Sweet. So sweet, so good.

"Easy." Yinsen's breath catches, Tony smiles. "I have you. Ah." He tilts Tony's head back and kisses him.

And that's just... mmm, lovely. He even _tastes_ sweet. Soft, tender, Tony licks along his lips until Yinsen opens his mouth and that's just plain wonderful. He pushes a leg between Tony's thighs and swallows his sigh with a smile.

"Easy." He murmurs against Tony's lips, his voice has gone deep and husky. A soft laugh, "You are very beautiful, you know that?"

Tony blinks at him, he laughs again. "You spent eighteen years hiding this?" Another kiss, hotter, deeper, even more delicious. He starts pushing Tony back to the bed, easing himself down on top of him.

If his own hands had set off sparks, this is a full blown fireworks display. Every inch of his skin is blazing, a hot taste like melted dark chocolate trickling down his throat.

"I have you." Yinsen kisses him again. "Shh." He eases his hand down between Tony's legs. Tony's happy to let him take over. It's good, Tony groans happily, and rubs his head against Yinsen's shoulder like a cat.

"There, is that good?" Tony nods, eyes rolling back in his head and beyond speech. He licks a line from Yinsen's collarbone to his throat.

Yinsen's hands feel wonderful, slender and long fingered, narrow boned and so very clever. Tony suddenly remembers the way he dismantled the missiles a few days ago, when Tony was shaking too hard to hold a screwdriver. He wonders if this is what the missiles felt, and feels vaguely envious.

"Would you like to turn over?" Tony blinks at him, not really taking anything in. Yinsen takes Tony's shoulder and pulls him up, trying to turn him onto his stomach. Tony hums happily, appreciating the strength in his fingers, the delicious pressure on muscles and bone. He turns over obediently and rubs his face into the bunk again.

"Shh." Yinsen's hands turn to his back, tracing and kneading his muscles, running his knuckles down his spine. "Is that good?"

"Good." Tony agrees. It takes an immense force of will just to think. "Fuck me?"

There's something like a chuckle. "We can try."

" _Please!_ "

He kisses the back of Tony's neck, nibbles the skin there. "It has been a long time."

Tony nods, not really thinking of his last time. Everything remotely negative is lost under the happy fog of being in Heat and having someone to look after and sate him. Even the warm scent of Omega- not the Alpha pheromones his hindbrain is begging for - is wonderful. Familiar although Tony had never really considered it before, comforting. And yes, sweet.

This time, it doesn't hurt. There's no resistance, his body is happy to accept everything. He can't quite reach that deep place, best place, and Tony whines in frustration.

"Shh." Another kiss on the back of his neck, and Yinsen shifts inside him, finding and - oh yes, that's almost as good, pressing against his prostate, and making his eyes roll back again.

"Good?" Yinsen's voice comes in pants.

"Nyah." Tony agrees, arching and trying to reach between himself and the bed and jerk himself off.

"Let me." His fingers feel even better than Tony's own. "There. Ah."

"Good?" Tony manages.

"Yes."

Oh, it's good, so sweet, Tony can feel himself getting close. He rocks back against Yinsen, closes his eyes. Hot, delicious tension not just between his legs, but also deep inside him, a slow, wonderful alien feeling, building tension, tight and oh god yesyesyesyes-

It's not quite a shout, more a deep, drawn-out groan from the pit of his soul as the orgasm finally shudders through him, coming hot against the bedsheets and clenched and shuddering inside until Tony feels as though he is coming apart at the edges, shaken to pieces.

He slumps to the bunk and closes his eyes, sighing happily as Yinsen follows him with a gasp and sigh.

"Thank you." Tony breathes. His body is still trembling in the aftershocks, the burning need banked to a warm, satisfied glow in his limbs, his chest, his heart.

"You are welcome." He can feel Yinsen's smile against his shoulderblade. "Was that good?"

"Yes." Tony nods, closes his eyes and relaxing into the lethargy that always came after really good sex. This is up and in the running for best sex Tony's ever had.

"It is not anything you should be frightened of." Yinsen's fingers trace over his back, the bones and muscle groups. "This is who you are."

Tony would like to protest, but he's still too sated and happy to argue, and this feels so good.

"You have nothing to be frightened of." Yinsen repeats, stroking his hair.

Anything Tony might have said then is gone, because a new wave of Heat suddenly hits him, and his body is suddenly demanding more, hot and aching. Tony groans. Yinsen laughs.

 

* * *

 

 "You still haven't told me where you're from." Tony breathes. It's the brief break between waves, and Tony's managed to drink a bit of water. He's shatteringly tired, but can't get to sleep, the moment he starts to drop off, the next wave hits. He'd rather talk instead.

"I'm from a small town called Gulmira." The bed is so small that to lie next to each other, they have to lie on their sides, pressed together chest to feet, faces inches apart. The glow of the arc reactor lights Yinsen's face in shades of blue. "It's actually a nice place."

"Got a family?" Tony closes the distance and kisses him, his beard scratches against Tony's.

"Yes, and I will see them when I leave here." There's a quiet determination in his voice that makes Tony smile. It's the tone of water wearing away stone, glaciers carving valleys; between the two of them, the Ten Rings haven't a chance.

"They won't mind about this, will they?" Tony closes his eyes, feeling the first pricklings of a new wave. Helping an Omega in Heat is pretty understandable for most, but some Alphas can be irrational. The last thing Tony wants is for his friend to be welcomed home by his family only to be thrown out for infidelity.

"No." Yinsen traces the edges of Tony's face, stroking through his hair. "They understand. And you, Stark?"

Tony snorts. "No."

"No?"

"How could I, if I was hiding this-" Tony waves a hand over himself, his sweat streaked body, the hot, eager slickness between his legs, the prickle of gooseflesh in the chill under returning Heat.

"So you're a man who has everything and nothing. Is it worth it?"

Tony is spared having to answer when the next wave finally takes hold with the force of a gunshot inside his skull, and forgets how to say much of anything at all.

 

* * *

 

There's not really any days or nights here, but Yinsen says thinks it takes about fifty-seven hours before Tony's finally out of Heat. Tony takes his word for it, his internal clock's completely shot. He's been on week-long benders and still had a vague idea how much time had passed. He's just too lightheaded from sheer blissed-out satisfaction to register much.

 "feels too good." He informs Yinsen when the other Omega helps him sit up and drink. The water is fucking _wonderful_.

 "Hmm?"

 Tony swallows. "For this place. Too good."

 "Biology is an amazing thing." Yinsen agrees. He gives Tony the glass and walks off to study the plans Tony drew up, carding his fingers through his hair as he passes.

It feels good. Fuck, if he wasn't here and now it would probably be more than good. It's not simply Heat-satisfaction and raw animal pleasure at sex and sheer human contact, he's been living with this - this _gun_ hanging over his head, and now it's finally gone off and - that was it. That was the whole nightmare. The thing he's been terrified of for all his adult life.

Boom.

Tony buries the embarrassment somewhere he won't have to look at it, and gets up. He's no longer sweating like before, and he and Yinsen did their best to get clean after his Heat broke, but his clothes still stick to him and he can smell Yinsen on his skin.

It's not... bad. Tony can feel his mind running and rerunning over the same checks he does after his workshop's just exploded - making sure he's still pretty much okay. He can't quite convince his brain that he really is about as fine as he can be. That he can wear somebody else's scent on his skin like a suit of clothes and not want to crawl under a shower and stay there until there's no more water in the pipes. To be completely okay with it. To feel good.

 

* * *

 

 They haven't seen anyone for what feels like - and probably is - weeks. Since Tony went into Heat. His senses have gotten so much sharper since then. Tony wrinkles his nose at the ugly smell as Alpha Coats walks in, the pressure sensor warned them and they are both standing, hands over their heads.

Coats sneers at him, as though Tony couldn't possibly be worth his irritation and seriously? Seriously they're going to do this? This Alpha bullshit I-am-so-superior crap? Are they that fucking stupid? Tony should just build them a Jericho and watch these assclowns try and figure out the firing algorithms. They'd end up blasting a nice new crater on the moon.

And then, just when it seems it might be okay, that these idiots might be actually _underestimating_ them, it all goes horribly inverted and even worse than before when Baldy steps in.

His name is Raza, but Tony calls him Baldy in his head. He doesn't want to give this guy the honour of using his name in his head and it's shorter than _Oh shit oh shit oh fuck that's bad_. He doesn't even say anything and Tony knows they are in a bad, bad place right now. Unlike Alpha Coats and his goons, Baldy does seem to have learnt the workings of the common bathroom. It doesn't make it any better, because there's something about him that's like a punch to the sternum. He doesn't bother trying to make himself big, or impressive, or even that threatening. He isn't even armed. He just has the aura of complete confidence that comes from knowing no one's mad enough to challenge you, a scent that screams nothing so much as utterly controlled, barely restrained murder, and eyes like bullet holes.

He looks at Tony with those empty eyes and Tony is suddenly overwhelmed with an urge to just confess everything because he knows, he fucking knows and he's just playing with them. Better to just say it now and get it over with.

But then he looks at Yinsen, and Yinsen doesn't even flinch. Just looks back, calm and easy in a 'what are you gentlemen doing in our room' sort of way. And then suddenly Tony can breathe again, the spell broken.

He walks towards Tony, eyes tracing down to where the arc reactor's glowing through his shirt and shit shitshit, he's wearing what's probably the discovery of the new fucking century in the middle of his chest and what if Baldy decides 'yeah no that's mine now' and takes it and Tony's back to using a car battery which has pretty much gone flat by now-

"Relax."

He unbuttons Tony's shirt to look at the arc reactor, one finger pressing against bare skin where there's still some sensation left. Tony's been sweating solidly for days. He's barely had enough water to drink, let alone wash, and he's had a three day long sex marathon. But never in this entire brain-damaged nightmare has he so badly wanted to wash until he bleeds. A sudden, violently vivid image of standing in a room with another Alpha, sick and defeated and terrified.

_do you want me to strip you_

"The bow and arrow once was the pinnacle of weapons technology. It allowed the great Genghis Khan to rule from the Pacific to the Ukraine." He walks over to the salvaged missile on the table and picks up one component. Just one. That one component Tony was turning into a repulsor.

He knows what he's looking at.

"An empire twice the size of Alexander the Great and four times the size of the Roman Empire."

He picks up the plans, and Tony breaths a little easier. Maybe not. Because those are in the wrong order and he's fairly sure one of them is upside down.

"But today, whoever holds the latest Stark weapons rules these lands. And soon, it will be my turn."

Yeah, he's insane. The not-fun, dangerous kind of insane. The kind of insane where you have a lot of weapons and bullet hole eyes and seriously, Tony was worried about these guys coming in and raping him when he was in Heat? There's something about Baldy that laughs at that fear and tells him he's not even begun to see horrible.

Then, he shows him that entirely new kind of horrible.

He doesn't even touch Tony.

And when it's over, and they've all gone, and it's Tony's turn to kneel face to face with Yinsen and hold his hands until they stop shaking, they one thing Tony can't get out of his mind - other than the whole sequence of Baldy trying to force a lump of red hot iron into Yinsen's mouth - was the way Baldy's expression didn't even change. It wasn't like Obie's poker face, in which he was trying to hide something. There was nothing to hide. There was nothing there to begin with.

He lets go of Yinsen's hands and pulls the man into a rough hug, because right now he needs the contact as well.

Yinsen pushes him away gently. "This is likely why he ordered me to help you. If you care, it gives him leverage over you, through me."

"If he thinks I need an excuse to give a damn when he tries to feed someone that thing-" Tony waves to where the iron is cooling in soft pings.

"A grave underestimation." There's a shadow of Yinsen's usual irony in that, and it makes Tony smile.

"Pretty much. Can you work? We've got to work. We've got twenty-four hours."

* * *

 

 Tony doesn't think he's ever worked like this before. His usual workshop frenzies blur into a haze of components and coffee and monitors after a while. This is nothing like that. Oddly, he's feeling completely calm.

He looks into the face of his creation, gridded mouth, open eyes. "Hello you bastard, good to see you at last." Tony murmurs without thinking _._ If it had wiring like Dummy or You or Butterfingers, this would be the point it decided it's name was You Bastard and Tony would be kicking himself for the fourth time. Hell, Jarvis might have been called Oh Fucking Hell if Tony hadn't given him the sense to choose his own damn name. Even if that name had given Tony cold chills. 

The suit doesn't have the brains to register anything. It needs Tony. Tony needs it.

He puts the helmet down in front of Yinsen. He doesn't need to say anything. It's time.

The hardest part, in the end, is stuffing the miles worth of wires and cables inside the suit before Tony can strap it on. He's way too damn calm for this, as Yinsen straps on the suit and Tony recites the path Yinsen's memorized for them. He hasn't allowed himself to think of outside, or after, or what if, and what's left behind is a crystal-clear calm so deep Tony can almost taste it. One way or any other, after this, it'll be over.

"Okay, say it again." Yinsen's calm too, then again, he's always calm. It makes Tony smile.

"41 steps straight ahead. Then 16 steps, that's from the door, fork right, 33 steps, turn right." Tony looks down at himself, grins. He's inside his creation, and his creation's inside him. He feels pretty good. "A kiss for luck?"

Yinsen gives an odd smile, then kissed his knuckles, and bumps them to Tony's forehead in a weird sort of blessing. Then he gets back to wiring him in. "Focus."

And the proximity sensors go off.

Shit.

 

* * *

 

 

Yinsen you fucking idiot oh fuck, _Tony_ is the one in the fucking suit of armor, Yinsen doesn't even have a flak jacket-

 He blunders through the corridors - _fourteen minutes ten -_ trying to count or at least estimate each lurching step - _twelve minutes fifty -_ The bullets just bounce off, metal doors crumple like foil - _eleven minutes sixteen -_ The Ten Rings, running away screaming. It makes Tony smile, a tight, satisfied smile.

And then - _ten minutes thirty-nine -_ oh god, oh fuck that's Yinsen - shit- The stupid fucking suit takes a slow- too fucking slow! - step-

"Watch out!"

Tony jerks back, and the suit follows just in time. The rocket blasts out a foot of the wall behind Tony. Baldy standing there.

Tony looks at him, remembering gnawed and broken nails running down his chest, the man's husky drawl in his ear. Pulling his shirt open like Tony is just -an object. A thing.

He's holding the rocket launcher. Starktech Talon-class, Tony recognises absently, raising his arm. Tony's got one too.

Only Tony doesn't miss.

Yinsen - oh shit oh shit please no. He's just lying there, each breath coming short and ragged. Please. Tony staggers the suit over to him and crouches down. He's got nine minutes and forty-six seconds of power left. Tony pulls up his mask. He stops counting the minutes.

"Come on. We got to go. Move for me, come on. We got a plan. We're gonna stick to it." He's barely registering what he's saying, just trying to find the right words that would make Yinsen get up and give that half-smile Tony's become so familiar with. These words have to exist, Tony just has to find them.

And Yinsen smiles, that half-smile. It's happier than Tony has ever seen it, even if he fights for breath. "This was always the plan, Stark."

No, not this plan. Please Yinsen, _please_. "Come on, you're gonna go see your family. Get up."

"My family is dead. I'm going to see them now, Stark."

No, please I need you here please. Tony's voice fails. There's nothing he can say. Please. Please.

"It's okay. I want this. I want this."

Tony wants to touch him, to just feel that again, once more. He doesn't dare to, his hands trapped in the huge armored gauntlets, Yinsen is too hurt to touch. His hands ache empty. "Thank you," Tony manages through a thick feeling in his throat, "for saving me."

"Don't waste it. Don't waste your life."

The suit takes the steps away that Tony can't.

 

* * *

 

 He can't really see after that. Between the light of being outside for the first time in - weeks? Months? - and the tears he won't admit and can't wipe away. But then everything becomes a wall of fire and the scream of burning and gunshots and the tears boil and evaporate. Something hot and burning goes off inside Tony too and he's screaming something lost under the roars of explosions. His explosions. His fucking tech. _He's_ the one who built them. _He's_ the one the Ten Rings wanted. But it's Yinsen who's dead and _it's Tony's fucking fault_. One of the best people Tony's ever met and he's _dead_ and Tony couldn't save him - was the reason he was there in the first place and oh god Tony's such a fucking failure and he should have just jumped off that balcony eighteen years ago -

 Tony can't tell if the shots racketing off the armor are from the Ten Rings or just burning ammunition going off, but it's Starktech. And the only thing that can get through Starktech, is Starktech.

There's a ping in his arm, and one of the supports in his elbow snaps, The weight drags on Tony's arm, unbearable, too heavy to hold up. He drops to his knees. Somewhere over the roar of so much explosives going off, he can hear the Ten Rings shouting. He can't understand it, but he can hear them laughing. They're laughing and Yinsen's dead and _it's all Tony's fault_.

_Fuck, Tony you couldn’t even manage to be born right. This is the only thing you’re good for?_

The tanks are empty, Tony's out of ammo and the power's nearly out. _Worthless, useless, profound failure._

Then- then there's Yinsen. Not there, but in Tony's mind so clearly he might be standing there.

_It is not anything you should be frightened of. This is who you are._

Kissing his knuckles and touching them to Tony's head. The blessing of a truly good man.

_Don't waste it. Don't waste your life._

Tony looked up through the flames. The suit's just so much scrap metal, but there's the repulsors, the repulsors they'd made in case they had to blow their way out. Tony designed one to power half a ton of raw metal and palladium through the air. With four-

Well, it wasn't as though he had much choice but to try it and see.

It activates with a roar and the kick of the launch crushes the breath from his lungs. For a moment all he can taste is gunmetal and kerosene, and there's nothing but the exploding ground around him to see. Burning red and white.

Then sky, blue sky and air in his lungs. Tony can finally draw a breath. A moment. One moment suspended, a breath in the clear air without ground under his feet. He's weightless inside the suit, there's nothing but blue sky. He's been underground for what feels like years and now there's nothing but sky. It's like being underwater and coming up for air.

He can feel the power under his hands, the metal around him shaking with the sheer effort it takes to keep it airborne.

Keep _him_ airborne.

Holy fuck he's _flying_.

At least for the time it takes to Tony to register this before the power finally dies and the ground comes rushing up to meet him.

 

* * *

 

 He's been gone for three months.

 None of it feels real when Rhodey comes up and starts as though it's only been three hours, as though everything that happened - didn't.

It's like an invitation, like the world is offering Tony the chance to forget everything. Like before. Just forget. Drown himself in parties and sex and drugs (well, not that, not anymore) until it's not real any more. Until it doesn't hurt.

Tony's been gone for three months.

It takes him less than three hours to decide what he's going to do now. The rest is spent fobbing off doctors trying to take a closer look at him and avoiding the not so subtle hints Rhodey's making about needing to wash until he can get to his jet and use the shower there, the one with the scent-masking soaps he's got stocked, for 'just in case'.

Because the world has only a very small brain and shouldn't have to cope with too many earth-shaking revelations in one go. Tony being still alive is big enough to go on with.

But just to keep it off balance, he throws in a press conference. Just in case.

 

* * *

 

It's the smells that get him. He'd not realised how much the drugs masked it but it's what first hits him after the first burst of light when he gets off the plane. Rhodey's been this warm sort of presence, all sun-heat and gun oil and Alpha which should have Tony's teeth on edge but ends up being so utterly _Rhodey_ that he almost wants to cry. God he's missed him.

 And after the diesel and oil smell of the plane cargo hold, the light is not the only thing of Malibu that's overwhelming. It's like he's been walking around half-blind and can finally see. It's amazing.

Although if that means he's going to start picking up on all those pheromone cues he's always being bitched at for ignoring, that would be rather less good. Still, maybe now he can get to be an asshole on purpose.

And then, oh fuck there's Pepper.

And she's warm too, warm and sort of earthy and salt where she's been crying. There's that perfume that he'd thought awful while scent blind and yeah, he can see why she likes it now and oh fuck oh god it's _Pepper_ and it's all Tony can do not to just bury his head in her shoulder and hang on.

The car is even better because it's got Happy as well and if Tony could get Rhodey in here too it would be like his favourite fucking people in the world all in one car (and wow that's pathetic) and that would be great-

But not Yinsen.

Everything seems a little darker with that thought, even the Malibu sunshine. Never Yinsen. Because Tony fucked up so badly that now he can't run or apologize or even die before he's fixed it, somehow.

At least the cheeseburger smells good, which is a relief because Tony was wondering if his sense of taste's going to be screwed up as well. But every good all-American Omega likes them, so clearly there's nothing wrong there.

There is something wrong though, with Obie. He opens the door for Tony and the overwhelming scent of _Alpha_ just punches him in the face. It makes him jittery in a way Rhodey didn't. Maybe it's the cigars. Tony never liked them even while scent blind and now the smell makes his nose burn.

And maybe it's the way Obie just stands that little bit too close, is that little bit too touchy- a hand on his arm, a shoulder against his- is _looking_ at him just a bit too much-

\- or maybe that's because he's not seen Tony in three months and wants to reassure himself he's really there. For fuck's sake, he actually gives a damn and that's suddenly unbearable?

But when he's done speaking, and Obie is hurrying him off the podium, his grip's like steel, and Tony knows with a knowledge that's not rational or experienced but something evolutionarily ingrained that he can't break that grip.

 

* * *

 

"That went well." Obie's just a bit too close, hand still snapped shut like a trap on Tony's shoulder. The smell of his cigar is making Tony nauseous and he can't even complain about it, because why would he suddenly start caring about something he'd never bothered to notice before?

 "Tony, we're a weapons manufacturer."

He's too _close_ , it's as though Obie's suddenly much bigger than he actually is, crowding Tony against the railing to the arc reactor. He wishes, _wishes_ he was still on Destrogestrel because every new instinct is blaring at him to back down and run, duck his head and submit.

He thinks of Yinsen, who'd taken on an entire squad of psychopathic Alphas with nothing but a machine gun. just so Tony might have a chance to get out and make things right again. Obie's not even armed.

"Obie, I just don't want a body count to be our only legacy." He manages to keep his voice steady, his spine straight. Something disappointed flickers in Obie's eyes and Tony feels a little ill at letting down one of the few people who've ever really given a damn about him.

But they have to do this. Besides the fact that Tony doesn't think he's ever going to be able to look at military grade weapons again, let alone design them, it's going to be worth taking the drop in stock with what they could do with the arc reactor.

And Obie knows that of course, because Obie knows Tony, and knows business, and because Tony's friends just can't keep their mouths shut. "Just tell me, who told you?"

"Never mind who told me. Show me. I want to see it." His hands are already going to Tony's collar.

Tony undoes the sling, and lets Obie unbutton his shirt and pull it open. For a moment, his hands aren't his. They're dark with ashes and scars, and Tony is breathing damp cave air.

His stomach turns over, and all Tony can do is stand there and pretend very hard he's somewhere else until Obie's had enough - oh please let that be soon, please - and that this isn't happening and for fuck's sake this is _Obie_ what the fuck is wrong with him-

Obie takes his time, a look of wonder on his face that would be really satisfying if Tony wasn't feeling so sick. Then finally - oh fuck _finally_ \- he closes Tony's shirt as though afraid someone would see them.

He doesn't let go, his knuckles - big, broad, solid as rivets - pressing into Tony's skin through the cloth, above his collarbone, close to his throat.

"It works." Tony manages, hoping Obie will take the hint and _get his hands off_.

He does, only to throw an arm around Tony's shoulder and pull him closer still, and Tony has to hold his breath against the sudden overwhelming stench of _Alpha_ and unrefined tobacco.

"Listen to me, Tony. We're a team. Do you understand? There's nothing we can't do if we stick together, like your father and I."

Oh god, please let this be over soon or Tony is going to run off screaming.

"I'm sorry I didn't give you a heads-up, okay?" _Let me go, let me go now please._

"Tony, no more of this 'ready, fire, aim' business. You understand me? You gotta let me handle this. I want you to promise me that you're gonna lay low."

He's too close. Tony can feel the heat of his body, face so close to his ear he can feel the reverberations go down his spine. He feels ill and at the same time perversely turned on because his fucked up instincts are translating _close_ and _Alpha_ to mean wanting to mate.

With _Obie_.

Fuck, Tony hates his body. When's his next Heat due? Probably soon, it must have been well over a month since the last one. Laying low would probably be a _really good_ idea.

 

* * *

 

 They go home. They go home. It's still sinking in. Home. He leaves Pepper to deal with the calls and goes down to the workshop. His feet have memorised the walk, which is just as well because part of him is still reeling from the familiar and new scents of oil and engines and raw metal that only smells even more like home.

"Hey guys." His voice is a half-croak. "Daddy's home."

"Sir." Jarvis' sounds as though he's trying not to say any more. As though -fuck - as though Tony made a machine that might actually _cry_.

Dummy, You and Butterfingers don't have Jarvis' control, they rush up on wildly spinning wheels. Butterfingers snags Tony by his shirt, You grabs the knee of his trousers and between them they manage to hoist Tony off his feet.

"Hey, _hey_! Put me down! D'you want to kill me, I just come back and you manhandle me-"

They put him down, Tony stumbles a few steps and turns back to the bots, laughing. He's _so fucking happy_ to be home. "What have you been doing to the workshop? I know it, you've wrecked the place, I just _know_ it -"

"They have been very well behaved in your absence, sir." Jarvis' voice is a little less stiff, the warmth in it makes Tony smile again.

"Nah, you're just covering for them, you enabler. I'll take one look 'round and the place will have burnt down." He turns, and there's Dummy, just a little back from the others, claw a little lowered in uncertainty. Is it okay, is it good?

"Hey big guy." Tony walks up, and runs a hand over Dummy's struts. The pneumatics whine as he tilts his camera up to look at Tony. It's good? "Yeah, you're good." Tony smiles.

Then his legs give way, and his head drops to rest on Dummy's chassis. He's home. Jesus _fuck_ he's home. He didn't think he'd make it. He's here and his boys are here, and they're all safe.

Dummy's claw rests in his head, it's half a ton of solid steel, and the touch is so light Tony barely feels it. Butterfingers and You pluck at his clothes, his shoulders, his back.

"Sir?" Jarvis' voice is tentative. "Sir." There's a world of relief in that word.

 

* * *

 

 Tony's hands move almost of their own accord, sketching out the lines of the arc reactor in the hologram. A new design, something that wasn't hammered out at the bottom of a cave. He waves the final design off and reaches to send the components to the fabrication units. His hands brush against a few foil packets tucked away under a rag. Tony picks one up and twirls it between his fingers. It crackles, and the little while pills rock in their containers.

"You have a fifty-seven percent chance of dying of a heart attack by the age of forty." There's a forbidding note in Jarvis' voice. It's an old argument. "And the shrapnel would greatly increase the likelihood. It would double it."

"Giving me a one hundred and fourteen percent chance of dying."

"Yes sir."

It's not going to be long, he's coming to know the symptoms pretty well by now. The usual smell of oil and metal in the workshop fractures into more precise notes of what kind of oil, what kind of metal; whether it had been rolled, heated or beaten. He can even smell himself, old and faded three months gone.

And he throws the drugs in the trash, because that way he can't see them and be reminded of how damn easy it would be just pop one and bye-bye Heat, he's free again, he doesn't have to do it, he can keep taking them-

-until he dies. Which, according to Jarvis, would be in the next five years.

So he throws them out, grits his teeth and has Jarvis put in an order for basic birth control, then he goes to feverdream.com and buys basically one of everything because, as the website points out: every Omega, every Heat is unique, and we have a toy for every occasion (nudge nudge, wink wink) and Tony, for once, isn't too sure where to even start.

He has the pills and toys sent via the same Jarvis-run system he used to buy his drugs from, the one that even Obie doesn't know about.

(He thinks about designing a sex-bot, gets as far as a few rough schematics before he can't do it anymore and has Jarvis scrap the lot. The thought of creating something just for him to fuck is horrible in ways Tony isn't thinking about.)

And then there's nothing to do but work on the arc reactor because apparently his body is having so much fun with this that it wants to draw it out for as long as possible.

 

* * *

 

Eventually Pepper comes down, and after she helped him with the arc reactor Tony finally gives in to her unreasoning demands that he sleep in his bed tonight. Tony doesn't feel much like sleeping. He can feel the Heat scratch under his skin and his fingers ache with inventing and the urge to invent. But he's lost count of the coffee mugs and every bone is aching in exhaustion since he hasn't slept since the plane ride here, and that was- 

"Forty-six hours ago." Jarvis supplies, and Tony realises he's speaking out loud.

"Aww, baby, were you keeping count?" Tony leans back and rubs his eyes.

Jarvis says nothing. The bots move maybe a little closer.

He says goodbye with a hand to their struts. "You can give them minute-by-minute updates of me if it makes them feel better."

"Yes sir."

Dummy, Butterfingers and You don't want to let him go, and hell, even Jarvis is a bit slow in opening the door. The air outside feels colder than it ought to be, bringing in alien scents of air conditioning and sea.

His bed smells of him, and whatever her name was from the night before he left. It seems a lifetime ago and he's lying on the ghosts of that last night. Between that and the crawling beginnings of Heat, he tosses and turns and kicks the blankets off and pulls them back on for hours before sleep creeps up on him.

And he flies.

He's soaring up on jets of white fire, the open arc-reactor a whirling storm of flame and blood, and he can feel the burning in his veins are he flies through the dark. He keeps pushing himself up, he can see the stars, can almost reach up and touch them.

He'll pick them out of the sky, bring one down for Obie to put in his reactor, one for Pepper to wear around her neck, one for Rhodey to hitch a jet to and fly on, one for a generator for Jarvis and the bots. They'd be so happy, he's smiling as he pours life's-blood and heartfire into going just that little higher.

Until his arteries run empty, and the arc reactor splutters and dies.

Gravity asserts itself with a grip of steel and he's falling. When he was awake, the world blurred into a confusion of blue and brown, sky and ground, but it's so dark here there's no telling the two apart and Tony could be falling forever, trying to reassure himself that he must have reached terminal velocity by now and can't be still falling faster-

He strikes ground and it could be sand or water, Tony doesn't know. It swallows him whole and he struggles to pull his head free and gulp a mouthful of air. Then unseen hands tighten on his limbs and drag him under again. The watersand fills his mouth grainy and stagnant, bloodhot. He can't breathe, he can't breathe and  it pushes inside him tightening cold and heavy around the warmth of the arc-reactor and oh god it's going to short out, he's underwater and the car battery is going to short and he's going to die-

The watersand fills his chests like cruel hands, spreading out across the remains of his ribcage. He reaches out trying to find someone to hold onto, someone to pull him out. But Obie turns his back on him and Rhodey shakes his head and  Pepper looks away, Yinsen lifts a hand and Tony can see right through it because he's dead. He can hear the crunch of sand under Dummy's wheels as he rolls away across the dunes.

No please I'm sorry I'm sorry I tried I tried-

_-God, Tony, you’re barely human-_

Tony lets go and lets the watersand take him.

He wakes with a mouthful of sweat-soaked sheets and chokes, spits. His mouth is dry as the cotton and he's still shaking. "Lights," He croaks, swallows "Lights!"

He didn't need to, Jarvis had the lights on before he'd even finished speaking, but it takes a few moments to register. Everything is painted in dull shades of yellow and gold, familiar and totally alien. He feels as though he's in the wrong skin, like he climbed back into the skin of his old self and it doesn't fit right, too small and too tight and too _wrong_.

He's wrong for this skin, wrong for this room, this whole place. If he stays here any longer he's going to puke.

He pulls on his oil-stained shirt and pants, they're dirty and smell, but at least they smell of him _now_ not him _then_.

He goes back down to the workshop and Dummy and the bots are so fucking happy to see him it's heartbreaking.

"Hey." He walks over to the couch he keeps shoved in the corner for crashing while inventing. "I tried to bring you a star, but it didn't work."

"I doubt that would be feasible sir."

Dummy brings him an old blanket he's had down here what seems like forever. It smells of Dummy's particular blend of oil and steel, familiar and new at the same time,. "Were you using this as a comfort blanket, you crazy bot?" Dummy's pneumatics hiss as he huddles in on himself, Tony's laugh sounds rusty in his own throat. "What the hell, it's a good blanket." He throws it over himself, ignoring the sticky slickness of motor oil.

"Quarter lights." The workshop dims, but not completely. Tony closes his eyes-

-And opens them. "Guys, this place is a mess, tidy it up."

The clink and hiss of his bots at work are the last reassurance Tony needs that he's back, that he's safe as Butterfingers and You fight over who gets to clean the worktable, and Dummy endlessly polishes the floor around Tony, never more than a few feet away.


End file.
